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July 10, 2008

A... Freak

There comes a time in every kids’ life when your parents think you’re... different. Eccentric. Odd. Weird.

A freak.

I guess it’s normal; every kid has had the influences of his or her own generation; music, clothes, speech, style. Every kid is bound to become different from their parents. Sure, when you’re little, you think you want to be just like them. That they’re your hero. The bestest best person in the whole wide world.

And then, you start to grow up, and you realize... that maybe you don’t wanna be just like them. Dress just like them. Listen to their music. Do the things they did.

You want to be... different.

For me, I started to drift away from my mother’s ideals when I first started middle school. Here people were so... different. People had groups, cliques, their own personalities and styles, despite even our strict dress code. I always marveled at their bravery and individuality in the world. I wondered how they did it... but I was young and naive. I still had yet to gain my individuality.

Then high school started. At first, I felt sort of afraid of just being... well, me. I wasn’t one of those preppie gossip machines or the hardcore gothics. I didn’t listen to much music or watch TV. Literally speaking, I was musically challenged. I also still dressed in my simple light colored tee shirt and jean shorts facade, something I cannot even fathom wearing these days. Pastel. Ugh. Anyway, basically I was your average dork. I was shy, bookish, smart. Didn’t have many friends. Not that I cared. I had two best pals. They were my life. Funny thing was, they were complete opposites. One was emo, and the other a dancer. Sort of preppie, but not totally. (But I still love her to death.)

So anyway, freshman year dragged on, and my ideals started to change. My family finally got the internet, and I started listening to music. By the end of summer I had a pretty good music library, and over the summer I got my first iPod. A big step for me. I had never been with the whole ‘new technology’ thing. I’d only gotten a CD player in the seventh grade. Anyway, so I start sophomore year, and my ideals and tastes began to change rapidly then. A few friends of mine recommended some bands to me, which I looked up on the net. It was sort of like the Great Awakening of Music for me. I didn’t know such wonderful music could exist. Bands like HIM, Evanescence, Nightwish, The 69 Eyes, Lacuna Coil... it was simply amazing. It was like my music heaven. The song lyrics spoke to me, much more so than any of the pop or hip-hop ever had. Thus decided, I left pop music in the dust while I moved on to my new tastes: rock, gothic rock, metal, punk rock, etc. It was amazing. I was in heaven. But then my fashion sense started changing as well. I discovered I liked the way I looked in darker colors; blacks, blues, purples. Jeans were my constant daily getup, right along with my favorite Converse All Stars. I started letting my hair down (something I’d never, ever done before since I was old enough to put my hair into a pony tail) and I decided... I liked it. I liked the way my dark brown locks fell around my face, how a few strands always hovered just over my right eye. I started wearing make-up, too, not much, just a little light brown eyeshadow with some darker brown at the edges, and a bit of gloss. I got contacts, something I had wanted since 5th grade, and I loved my new look. Dark. I felt is suited me. My personality, too, morphed into a sort of punk, I’ll-do-what-I-want-and-I-don’t-care-what-you-think kind of attitude, afraid of nothing and no one, not their opinions nor their distaste. Confidence and individuality were my constant companions, new emotions that I took to heart with excitement. I’d never felt so alive. I realized, this was the real me. I had finally broken through the monotonous day-after-day mask I had always worn without ever knowing it. I was so happy. I could write, red, draw, do whatever I wanted.

Freedom. Individuality. It felt so good. So... right.

But like all good things, they have to end.

So I’m shopping with my mother for clothes, and I’m finding all these awesome outfits (in dark colors, of course). You know, tanks, band tees, jackets, jeans... and my mom just takes one look at my selections with a disdainful eye. I’d long since learned how to read her without even a word, and so of course I ask her what’s wrong.

"Everything’s so dark," she tells me, "There’s no color."

I look back to the clothes in my arms, slightly confused. "What? Yes there is. See, I’ve got some red and purple in here too."

She shook her head, looking up at me. "It’s a lot of black, Jay," she presses, her eyes pleading.

I pause for a moment, realization hitting me like a wave of water. I realize she hates the way I’ve become; a dark, moody teen who’s wardrobe consists almost entirely of black. I understand her distress, and I kick myself for not seeing sooner.

"Okay, mom. I’ll go find something in another color, okay?" I tell her, trying to smile. A look of relief crosses her face as she turns away, looking back to the racks. I pick out a couple colored tanks just to make her happy, then we pay for our stuff and go home.

Things pretty much go smoothly for a couple of weeks, then mom suddenly starts talking about the way people dress. I instantly want to be elsewhere, but of course my antagonistic brother comes in and calls me a dark, black-wearing emo that has no life. He’s crossed the line here.

"I am not!" I protest, but to no avail. I know I’m not a fully blown emo, but I’m not not emo, either.

"Jay, all you wear is black!" my mother says, her tone somewhat resentful.

"But I like black," I return, frowning. I hate it when she does that.

"You used to hate black," she presses. This is true. I used to hate it with a passion. I always wore pink. Pink, pink, and more pink. I think I was brainwashed when I was little.

"I know. But I like it now," I shoot back, trying not to lose my temper. I wish she would just let it be.

"But it’s just so boring," she goes on, "You never wear any color."

"I do too! I wear blue and purple and red and —."

She shakes her head, silencing me. "If you’d only wear something brighter! Like pastels —."

My jaw drops. She did soooo not go there.

"Pastels?" I squeak, trying to keep the horror from bubbling up inside me and registering on my face.

She nods, smiling. "Yes. Now if you’d only wear a little pink —."

"Pink?!" I squawk, horrified. My mother wants me to wear... pink.

She gets big Bambi eyes, looking up at me pleadingly. "Please, Jay? Just a little color for me?"

"Fine," I huff, defeated, "But I am not wearing pink, no matter what you say. I’ll wear other colors, but no pink."

She sighs, knowing it’s the best deal she’s going to get. So I go off to my room, crashing on the bed. It finally hits me at how horrified my mother is at my sudden changes. I really do feel sorry for her; I understand how much this much bother her, eat away at her insides. But I am who I am, and I’m sorry if I can’t change that.

So things are going good for the next couple months; I get out of school, and I’m either always drawing, reading, writing or going on the net. My music library and tastes are increasing still, thanks to iTunes. My mother, of course, has no idea; I buy all my own music. She had no idea what I listened to. And I thought it was better this way.

Okay, it was definitely better.

So we’re at Walmart and I’m in the music section, my brother in the games and my mom off shopping for whatever. I wanted to get a HIM CD; I knew I could just buy it on iTunes, but it’s just not the same as actually having the CD, you know? Anyway, so I find Venus Doom and I pick it up just as mom walks up. I ask her if I could get it and she says yes, so I drop it in the cart.

Then everything falls to pieces.

"So, what are you getting?" she asks, reaching down to pick it up.

My eyes go big and I brace myself as she reads the cover. Big mistake on my behalf. I should have just bought it off iTunes like I had originally planned.

"‘Venus Doom’?" she asks somewhat disapprovingly. I slightly relax. I was expecting a much worse reaction.

But oh, she just had to flip it over and read the back, didn’t she?

And here come the fireworks.

"‘Love In Cold Blood’? ‘Sleepwalking Past Hope’? ‘Bleed Well’? Jay, this is horrible! What are you thinking?!" she cries, looking up at me with shocked, slightly angry eyes.

I’m at a loss for words. I hadn’t planned on this.

"It’s really not that bad!" I protest, scrambling for my defense. "It’s not what it looks like..."

"Jay, this has suicide and death written all over it!"

I sigh in frustration, snatching the CD from her hands. "Fine. I won’t get it. Never mind. Let’s just go."

So we go home, and I instantly go into my room and put on a I Am Ghost CD that I managed to acquire at the half-price bookstore under her nose. The loudness and quick, gothic beat help ease my stress, but I can still think. So late that night I’m still up, unable to sleep, thinking over the day. I realize that I’m my mother’s worst fear: that her daughter isn’t the perfect, peaceful, normal angel she wanted me to be. Instead I’m some gothic, punkish, black-clad half-emo with a ‘horrific’ taste in music and clothes. I sigh in frustration, grabbing my sketch book. Sketching always helped me when I was depressed. Which had been quite often, as of late.

So I open up the book and I’m flipping through the pictures, still thinking. Suddenly I get up and head to my bookcase, pulling out my previous sketch books from over the years. In flipping through them I realize that I hadn’t been showing my mother my sketches for some while now. I saw how they had slowly turned darker and darker, from the classic Disney characters to those inspired by movies like "The Nightmare before Christmas" and "Sleepy Hollow". Vampires, witches, warlocks, pirates... no more sweet, Disney princesses for me. I know that this was what my mother meant. I used to be so different... so... normal, I guess.

Putting the books away I climb back into bed, my heart heavy and brain bursting. What could I do? I’m not like that anymore. And I can’t muffle my individuality forever. I did it for too long, and I’m not going to do it anymore.

Yet I still make a vow that I’ll wear something lighter every so often, usually a white tee shirt, or something nice for church. I see it please her; she’s always so proud when people fawn over me and say how pretty I’ve gotten over the past week(Yuck. I hate when people do that. It’s a whole week. Big deal. ¬¬). It always kills me to see her so happy at this... how come she can’t accept the real me?

For this reason I haven’t asked her several things. Like, about getting side bangs or my ears pierced, or putting red streaks in my hair(temp color only... the stuff that washes out in a week). When I tod her that my friend offered to dye my hair for me, she grudgingly said yes. I told her that she was only going to put streaks in it; that it would only be in for a week at the most. Yet later that night I’m looking for something to eat in the kitchen and she comes up and hugs me, whispering in my ear.

"Why would you want to dye your hair? It’s so beautiful."

My throat tightens. The guilt trick. Ugh.

"Mom, I’m only putting streaks in it. And they’re gonna wash out in a week anyway."

She looks at me then, her light green eyes watery. "Well then what’s the point?"

I sigh inwardly. It’s always twenty questions. "I just want to see how it looks," I supply, trying to smile.

She is unamused.

"It’s not like I’m going to wear it to school!" I protest, sighing.

"How do I know that?"

"It’s not allowed."

"I’ve seen people with their hair like that."

I mentally swear. I had hoped she wouldn’t have noticed. I decide to take a different approach.

"Please, mom, it’s only going to be for a week," I plead, suddenly exhausted.

She stares at me a moment longer, then sighs. "Fine," she murmurs. I give her a hug, and then we part ways.

I feel so depressed afterward. I wish she could just let me be. Is that so much to ask? Did I make the wrong decision? Should I have said I wouldn’t do it? The whole thing is so confusing and heart-wrenching. What can I do? I want to be me... but I don’t want my mother to think I’m a freak. But then again... I guess that’s unavoidable, right? I want to be the way I am, so I am who I am... but she disapproves of it so. What can I do? I wish I knew... oh well. Maybe I can figure it out later. I hope I do soon. Thoughts and opinions appreciated, loves.

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